Thursday, January 8, 2009

When I was around ten years old, a few of us would ride our bikes to some abandoned mental hospital buildings. It was a pretty far ride and I sometimes wonder how my mother was ok with the fact that we'd disappear for such a long time. Especially when she knew where we were headed. The place was pretty run down and pretty dangerous. Thankfully I was a chicken and wouldn't go in too far. Maybe my mother knew that, but I doubt it.

My brother and I and a few friends would head up there in the summer. Young trees had swallowed the place up and it always seemed so quiet and hot and still as we approached the main lobby. Inside it was moist and chilly and smelled like wet wood and damp concrete. And there always seemed to be a low steady breeze blowing out from deep within the building. We'd poke around a bit, never going too far in. We saw the patients' rooms - tiny dank rooms that looked smaller than prison cells. Way smaller. Never bumped into any older kids or teenagers, but we always feared them being in there. We'd stumble upon spray-painted decorations - obscene things, foul words, and the occasional pentagram. I always wondered who exactly painted pentagrams in urban ruins. I still do.

I remember one year, and this is embarrassing and chill-inducing, planning a Halloween party at the ruins. We had NO INTENTION WHATSOEVER to actually follow through with this, but I remember loving the act of planning it out - imagining a bunch of us in costumes with paper decorations strung up and plastic pumpkins spread about.

Summer ended. Halloween passed. The buildings were demolished.

These are photos of the main structure that we never ventured to (it was on the other side of a major bike-unfriendly highway). This was demolished a couple years ago. But it looks a heck of a lot like the sub-structures where we'd hang out, and plan our stupid party.